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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997385">but when in other habits you are seen</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz'>samyazaz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Based On a D&amp;D Game, Based on a Dungeons &amp; Dragons Game, F/F, F/M, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Original D&amp;D Character(s) - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:06:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,968</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quil befriends Phi, a servant of the impressive Duke of Fairpoint Hold. The duke makes pains to befriend Quil. But for some reason, he seems to think she knows his wife...</p>
<p>A reverse-Twelfth Night AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original D&amp;D Character(s)/Original D&amp;D Character(s), Original D&amp;D Character(s)/Other(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Campaign of Five Dragons</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>but when in other habits you are seen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/gifts">lady_ragnell</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You've a caller," Cordelia says from the doorway, and Quil pauses over her books, bites back her surge of temper for Cordelia's sake. She turns and looks over her shoulder, to her sister.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia's in the doorway, gripping the jamb with one hand and watching Quil with a sharp slant to her mouth, an unhappy set to her brows, and Quil sighs. They've argued about this before, three suitors back, when Quil lost her temper and shouted a man out of their home when he dared to suggest that she must be pleased with the fortuitous circumstances of her sister's return. When he flipped shut her book and tossed it aside, and lost the passage that Quil had spent hours that morning trying to find.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Send them up, then," Quil says, flat, and looks away as she speaks so she won't see the surprise on Cordelia's face, surprise and probably hope, and both of it unwarranted. <em>Send them up, and I'll send them away.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It'll waste less of her time, that way, than if she had to leave her books long enough to walk down to the door and tell them so, and then come back upstairs. This way, it'll cost her but a moment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia hurries off, no doubt eager to see the visitor up before Quil changes her mind, and Quil bends her head over the book on her table once more, and traces her finger along the passages as she reads them, until there's a cough behind her, what might be a minute later or an hour, and she straightens and turns, sees Cordelia in the doorway again, half a step behind a woman watching Quil with an uncertain gaze, which at least is a change from all the brash and brazen suitors she's had to send away before. She holds herself tall and straight, and Quil doesn't think she looks the sort to be meek generally, but she's at least uncertain enough about her welcome that perhaps Quil will have an easy time of it turning her down, and sending her away, without too much of a fuss or a fight.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Thank you, Cordelia," she says, and she and the woman watch each other across the room as Cordelia's light footsteps fade down the hall and into the distance.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It's only then that Quil turns to face the woman squarely, draws a breath and pulls back her shoulders and says, "Thank you for your interest, but I'm not receiving suitors. I'm sorry you've wasted your time, coming all the way here."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I don't think I have," the woman says quietly, and glances at the door jamb as though it's a physical barrier holding her back, as though it's a door shut in her face. "May I?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil frowns. It's not the immediate acceptance and retreat that she'd been hoping for, but asking before stepping through an open, unbarred doorway is more courtesy than most have shown. She still thinks she'd go, if Quil told her to outright, so she sighs and inclines her head, grants permission.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The woman steps into the room. She doesn't rush to Quil's side, doesn't clutch at her hand and start declaiming Quil's beauty or her own ardor. She stands one stride past the doorway and watches Quil, quiet and a little sad, and says nothing at all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She starts to rise, at a loss for what this woman wants or how Quil is meant to send her away, but the moment she begins to do so, the woman moves forward, two quick strides with a hand outstretched, and says, "Please, that's not necessary. I don't mean to disturb you, or to take up your time." Quil drops back into her chair and blinks at her, no less at sea. "I only thought— I came to bring you sympathies."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil takes a sharp breath. It stutters through her, wet and broken. "Did you?" she asks, barely breathing. "On whose behalf?" She isn't anyone Quil knows, isn't anyone who would have reason to think — to know — that she needed sympathy more than congratulations over her sister's return. She must be a messenger, sent by someone more familiar.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The woman looks startled for an instant, startled enough for Quil to wonder if she should have recognized her as member of a friend's staff and household. But she bows almost at the same time, bows deep and formal, and says, "The Windroses, my lady."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil waits half a beat, waits for her to say a name, but she doesn't. And it wouldn't clarify things any if she did, because Quil's never met any of the Windroses, much less known one of them well enough for them to comprehend her pain. "What, all of them?" she demands on a shock of surprise. And then, just as bewildered, <em>"Why?"</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The woman straightens, and when her gaze meets Quil's again, it's shaded with sympathy. "Yes," she says softly. "All of them. And—" She gestures, and seems frustrated, and Quil's shoulders sink under a wash of guilt over demanding explanations that a messenger couldn't hope to have. "Because it seemed the thing to do. It seemed like a thing you'd need."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil's mouth trembles, but she presses it flat and falls back into her chair, shoulders slumped. "Not to the rest of the town," she says softly, tracing a fingertip along the edge of the page her book still lies open to. "They expect to find me rejoicing." She glances up again, out of the corner of her eye. "How should the Windroses be the only ones to know otherwise?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The woman holds herself very, very still for a single instant, until at once her professional reserve breaks and she moves swiftly forward, drops to a knee before Quil and reaches for her like she means to clasp her hand, only hesitates an instant before touching her and then goes still again, and carefully draws her hands back to close around handfuls of air. "There isn't a member of the family who hasn't known loss. Terry — the duke, that is — has served in the military." She drops her hovering hands into her lap, says quietly, "I, too, spent years in military service. I know well enough that it's not easy, nor easy for others to comprehend its difficulties. How could I do otherwise?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Oh</em>, Quil thinks, gazing down at her. Not a household messenger, then, but a comrade in arms, given a position in the house after leaving her military career behind, and chosen to deliver the message because the duke knew she'd deliver a heartfelt one. Or maybe, Quil thinks, taking in the sincerity on her face, maybe she volunteered to carry the message herself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Thank you," Quil says quietly, her voice choked. "Please— Please pass my thanks on to the duke, and the rest of the family. It's very kind. It's very thoughtful of them." Her voice goes softer still. "Of you."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The woman gazes up at her, seems as though she has a hundred things she'd like to say poised on her tongue. But her gaze slides past Quil to the table, to the haphazard towers of books there, the sheafs of papers that Quil has been scribbling countless notes on, and she visibly swallows them back. "I didn't want to disturb you, or take too much of your time," she says. "Only to tell you that... You're not alone. There are those who understand, a little, what you must be struggling with." Her gaze slides once more to the books, quietly curious and wondering, but she still doesn't comment on them, says only, "And if there's any sort of assistance you might benefit from, beyond sympathies and understanding—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil can't help but laugh, a little. The taste of it isn't as bitter as she expects, the shape of it more true than twisted. It takes her by surprise. She hasn't had cause to laugh since Cordelia returned to her. Since before. "Thank you," she says, and means it. "But unless the Windroses know where to find a proper wizard's library, rather than these half-moldered odds and ends I have managed to find myself, there's little else to do but to read, and to hope." She doesn't mean to say more, doesn't want to, but all the same finds herself making a frustrated gesture towards the book, and murmuring bitterly, "For all the good these have done me thus far. But—" She lifts her chin and shakes her shoulders, shakes the mood off of her. Despair will do her no good. Will do <em>Cordelia</em> no good. She dredges up a smile, because the woman is watching her too closely now to have missed the slip in her mood, and if she comments on it, Quil's strength will shatter like sugar-glass. "Such is the way. One will never find something if they don't look for it in the first place, after all. Please," she adds, impulsively, as the woman starts to bow, to take her leave. "You've been so kind, and I don't even know— What may I call you?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The woman looks startled for a moment, and then smiles, a true and warm smile. "Let's not stand on manners," she says. "Please, call me Phi."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Phi," Quil echoes quietly, and smiles as well, softly. "Then you must call me Quil."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's smile brightens, and she seems pleased, but she still bows before Quil as though she'd not just been the one to request they set etiquette and titles aside, as deep as she had when she'd arrived. Deeper, maybe. Quil laughs quietly, and when Phi straightens, she seems even yet more pleased, as though that had been her aim all along. "Good day, Quil."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Good day, Phi," Quil answers her, and waits until she's left, and her footsteps have been swallowed by the rest of the house, before she turns to bend over her books once more.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> *</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She cannot stay locked away in the library forever, gathering dust like the rest of her books — or so Cordelia tells her. At length, Quil concedes, more because she'll lose less time escorting Cordelia to a ball than she will weathering Cordelia's attempts to persuade her day in and day out.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia stares at her in abject horror when she descends, tight-jawed and resolute, to the carriage that waits for them both. "You can't go in that," she cries. "You'll look like a <em>matron</em>. No one's worn that shade in ages! Where did you <em>find</em> that?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It's the only gown she has that's at all suitable for a proper ball, and Quil thought the color was rather fetching when the modiste showed it to her, years before when the greatest concern Quil had was trying to find a fabric that would set off nicely against the color of her skin. It's why she's kept this one to the last — she sold all the others off, piece by piece, to fund the shelves and shelves of books that she'd sought out, first to find a way to bring Cordelia back, and now to find a way to help her. This is the only one she has left.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> All she says to Cordelia, though, is, "If I go change, we'll be far more than fashionably late, and you'll miss a dance or three." She moves past Cordelia, catches her by the arm and guides her around and out with her to the waiting carriage. "Let them think me a matron, if they like. I'm not looking to catch a suitor's eye. I've had quite enough of them turned my direction as it is."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia gives her an impatient look. "If you're not going to dance, what's the point even of going?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>To make you happy</em>, Quil thinks, but bites her tongue. <em>To make you smile.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia is not smiling now, so Quil does so in her stead, and leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, and says, "I will dance. At least once, I promise."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia squawks a laughing protest, as Quil had hoped she would, and Quil bundles her into the carriage, and climbs in beside her, and keeps her distracted the whole way there by asking her who she hopes to dance with, and for which ones.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia slants her a sly glance when Quil asks, too casually, "And the waltz? Is there anyone in particular you favor for that?", and Quil thinks she must know precisely what she's doing. But Cordelia doesn't call her on it, just flushes a moment later and ducks her head with a grin and says something about a young lady of her acquaintance, and her musical accomplishments. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia scarcely waits an instant, while Quil is still trying to decide if this warrants teasing or sincerity, before she fixes Quil with a look and a glittering smile and asks, "What about <em>you?</em> Who do you hope to waltz with?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Hopefully, no one at all</em>, Quil thinks, but doesn't say that either. She just shakes her head and says, "I suppose it shall be up to everyone else there, to make their case and convince me."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia seems little satisfied by the answer, and pesters her for more and better ones the entire rest of the trip, which thankfully is not too long, by that point.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> For all Cordelia's protests about how she was going to spend the night shoving Quil in front of every eligible man or woman worthy of her time, until her dance card was full ("—and I don't have to worry about you anymore," she'd said, and Quil had nearly choked on a bitter laugh), she disappears into the crowd almost as soon as they arrive. Quil's relieved to be able to get herself some refreshments and find a place against the wall, where she can watch for glimpses of Cordelia and enjoy her giddy delight vicariously.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She dances, more than once, though she's sure that when she says so on the ride home, Cordelia will say they don't count, because they were with friends rather than eligible gentlemen or ladies. But she enjoys herself, more than she would if she were dancing with someone she'd have to worry might come calling once the night is over, and the ball done, and she's back to her books and her searching.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The night's nearly done and she's only waiting for the end of it, sitting with a cool drink to wet her throat and keep her hands occupied, when a presence near her that lingers and doesn't pass by catches her attention, and she glances up and half-chokes on her drink when she sees a well-appointed gentlemen awaiting her attention.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He smiles at her once he sees that he has it, and bows, too low for someone dressed as fine as he is, to someone like her, wearing a years-old gown in unfashionable colors. She blinks at him, taken aback and unsure what he could possibly want. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When he straightens he's still smiling at her, a smile warm enough to make his whole face glow like one of the lanterns set about the room. "Forgive me, Miss Myale," he says, and she startles again to hear her name on the lips of a stranger, "for not observing etiquette, but I have tried half the night to find a mutual acquaintance to make a proper introduction, and come up short, and the lady of the house seems to be occupied elsewhere. I hope you'll forgive my forwardness in making my own, on account of our previous connection."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil blinks at him further, if only to keep herself from gaping. When she finally manages to find her voice, she scrapes out an uneven, "Your pardon, sir, but—" There's no polite way to ask it. "Have we met? I have been much preoccupied of late—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Your sister, yes." He sits on the edge of the chair beside hers, leaning in towards her, and his face has gone shaded with concern. "How fares she?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There is a stone in her throat that Quil can hardly speak around. She gazes out at the ball for a moment, the milling sweep of people trading partners and awaiting the next song. She can't say the truth, not to a stranger, not here in the midst of what's meant to be revelry. But she can't — <em>won't</em> — lie, either. She swallows three times before she can make a sound, and then only softly, to say, "She's enjoying the dancing very much, I believe." Her voice slips, turns wistful and sad despite herself. "It's good to see her happy."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This stranger watches her with brown eyes that are soft with sympathy. He watches her like he understands everything that she can't say, but how could he? "I am glad to hear that much, at least."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil ducks her head and clears her throat, twists her fingers together on her lap to keep her hands steady. "I think it's I who must beg your forgiveness, sir." Her mouth twists with a bitter smile. "I am not much suited for good cheer, these days." <em>I told Cordelia so, didn't I? I told her this would be a disaster.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He doesn't look affronted by her melancholy mood, though, at least not at first. His brows draw together into a frown after a moment, and she thinks maybe he only had to think on it to realize the depth of her poor manners. But eventually he speaks, and he says, still soft and kind, "Please. It flies in the face of all propriety, of course, when we haven't even been rightly introduced, but— I would have you call me Terry, if it's not too forward."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Terry—?</em> She stares at him outright this time, her thoughts spinning, turning the name around and around like a trinket between her fingers, worrying at it, <em>Why is that— Why would he think we— Why does that sound—</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She leaps to her feet, gasps a horrified, "Your Grace!" and drops into an unsteady, much-too-belated curtsy. "Forgive me— I did not realize—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke leans his head in his hand, fingers rubbing at his temples and brows, and her voice clots in her throat. She must have offended him terribly. She should find Cordelia and drag her to the carriage and go. This was a wretched idea, she <em>told</em> Cordelia it was—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks up at her, and his expression is twisted, is unhappy, but not with offense. He looks chagrined, and she cannot fathom why he should be. "Please," he says to her, a quiet note of strain in his voice. "This is the opposite of what I'd hoped for."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She trembles, a little. She feels like a rabbit half-caught in a snare. If she dares to make any movement at all, it will spring. "What did you hope for, your Grace?" she asks unsteadily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He grimaces again, and rubs his hand over his mouth, and she waits. At length he stands, and formality seems to settle over him again like a cloak, and he bows to her. She nearly laughs, wild and hysterical. Too deep for a stranger, she'd thought the first time. Far, far too deep for a duke. Not to someone like her. "Miss Myale," he says to her, "might I have the pleasure of the next dance?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She stares at him, her voice dried up entirely. "It is meant to be a waltz," she whispers, too faint to be a useful protest.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He's too well-bred, too well-mannered, to show a reaction. He only hesitates an instant, and then says, softly, "It is," and, "If you do not waltz—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "No, I do— I can—" She could kick herself, when he had so clearly been offering her an excuse to refuse. And now there's cautious hope blooming on his face again, and she can't be so unmannered as to decline <em>now</em>, after giving him reason to think she didn't intend to. She blows out a sharp breath, and does the only thing she can. She says, "Thank you, your Grace," and when he smiles brilliantly and offers his arm, she takes it, and lets him lead her to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia is never, ever going to let her hear the end of this. She never should have agreed to come. She could be home right now, could be halfway through the next book on her pile, she might have <em>found</em> something, and instead she's waltzing with a duke. Dancing with a duke who asked her to call him by his <em>name</em>. There's no sense in the world at all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His hand is a light warmth at her waist, and his other holds her hand carefully — not, she thinks, like he thinks he might hurt her, or like he fears to touch her, but like the delicate way one might handle a crystal glass, or a family heirloom. She wonders, dimly, if the dancing tutors dukes hire for their sons teach them this, how to make an acquaintance of five minutes feel like something cherished.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It's madness. They haven't done anything more than take their positions for the dance, and she's having flights of fancies. She doesn't even <em>want</em> a duke's attention. Cordelia will laugh at her, and she'll deserve it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The music swells, and they begin to dance. Quil's feet carry her without automatically, and she's grateful for it, because every thought she has is focused on the man in front of her, on wondering why he singled her out, why he'd care to dance with her, how he's the only person in all of society to even begin to understand the situation with Cordelia. Why he would smile at her so warmly, the way one might at an old friend one is glad to see, when they hadn't even been introduced yet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> After a moment, long enough for them to whirl about the ballroom floor and almost make it back to where they'd begun, she clears her throat, and then ducks her head, because his attention immediately redoubles upon her. "I owe you thanks, I think."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "For the dance?" He sounds consternated. "It's I who should be thanking you, for the honor."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She pulls a face. Inexplicably, it makes him laugh. "No, for— for your sympathies. Today and ... before. Your— lady," she says, at a loss for how else to describe her, when Phi never gave her any title or position, only her name, and the duke might chide her for the impropriety if Quil reveals how readily she dispensed with formalities, "she brought them to me. For the whole household, she said, but she named you especially. It was a kindness, and—" Her voice wobbles, and she has to stop for a moment, while they weave their way around a knot of couples who have danced too close to one another, and nearly become entangled. When she speaks again, it's in scarcely a whisper: "—and it was sorely needed."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Ah!" the duke says, understanding brightening his face like dawn. "Yes, of course. My wife is better at words than I am, most days." His gaze flicks sideways, and Quil follows it, sees him looking to where she'd been sitting mere minutes before, where he'd come to ask her to dance. Where she'd managed to drive his head into his hands as though it ached ferociously, with only the briefest of conversation. She trips a little over her hooves, but both his hands tighten on her, steadying her so that they scarcely break pattern, and no one else around them seems even to have noticed her mistake. "I'm glad she delivered them to you. That she's made your acquaintance."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil frowns at him in bewilderment for a moment before she realizes the misunderstanding. His lady, she'd said, not Lady, but how was he to suspect the difference, when anyone else in society would know the proper way to speak of Phi? She bites her lip and drops her gaze, lets him think she's focusing on her feet and on not tripping again. If she corrects him, he might chastise Phi for dispensing with courtesy the way that she did, and Quil couldn't bear that, not when Phi was so kind, and her kindness so sorely needed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Of— of course," she stammers. "Your...wife." <em>The duchess</em>, she thinks to herself, and quails inwardly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> If the duke notices her abrupt awkwardness, he's too well-mannered to comment upon it. Perhaps, she thinks desperately, he will only take it as being overawed by her title and rank. He smiles at her all the same, and she detects no sign of what he might think of her strangeness when he says, easily, "It's a terrible pity that duty kept her from being here tonight. She might have made our introductions, if she were, and spared me the necessity of flying in the face of all manners and etiquette to make my own."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil only scarcely manages to keep from stumbling again at the thought of if the duchess <em>had</em> been in attendance at the ball, if the duke had brought her over to make introductions only for them both to discover that she and Quil had never lain eyes upon each other before. Oh, Quil would've had to sink right down through the floor, or burn up to a cinder right in front of her, or grabbed Cordelia from the dancing and fled back home before the duchess could take umbrage with Quil for claiming a connection that didn't exist. Even if she'd never claimed it at all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Yes," she chokes out, when she realizes that she's let the duke go unanswered too long. "It's a great shame." The waltz has brought them about to the edge of the dance floor, and the dance is nearly done, so she risks the offense and slips out of his arms, steps back when it leaves him blinking and starting after her, looking uncertain and startled.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Your pardon," she gasps when he steps toward her. Chasing her? Or moving out of the way of those who are still dancing? She doesn't know. It doesn't matter. She shakes her head, too swift, and takes another step backwards from him. "Forgive me, I need—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His hands hover, like he wants to reach for her but doesn't dare, and his face is creased with concern. "Miss Myale, are you unwell? You're looking peaked. Should I fetch a drink for you?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shakes her head, barely resists the wild urge to laugh. "No, please, I just— I need a bit of air, I think. Please, you needn't trouble yourself—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She stumbles backwards two more steps, then turns and flees toward the open doors, and the darkened garden beyond. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He doesn't follow her, thank the gods, and once she's outside she drops down onto a bench just at the edge of the gardens proper, and leans her head in her hands. This was a foolish, <em>wretched</em> idea, she never should have let Cordelia persuade her. She can't mingle and revel with these people, when all her thoughts are on her sister's plight. When she can't even manage to scrape together enough wits to dance with a gentleman without giving him insult thrice over. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She drops her hands eventually, so she can turn her face up to the thin breeze that sighs through the foliage behind her, and let it cool the heat of mortification from her cheeks. Eventually her too-ragged breathing slows, steadies, though her mortification burns just as hot. She will wait here, she thinks, and claim a headache to anyone who might happen upon her, and in perhaps an hour she'll flag down a footman or a maid and ask them to tell Cordelia where she is, so she might find her when she's ready to leave.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The sounds of the ball, the music and conversation and laughter, are muffled from her place outside. But as she sits there with her face turned up to the night sky, there's a creak that's clearer, closer, and the scuff of a shoe upon stone, and she opens her eyes in time to see Terry coming out onto the terrace above the gardens, a glass from the refreshments room in each hand.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil's heart plunges straight down into her stomach. He looks about and his gaze sweeps over her. It's dark, she realizes, and his eyes are still used to the light inside, and he hasn't seen her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He probably will once she moves, but there's nothing for it. She gets to her feet and turns away before he's able to catch her gaze, when there won't be any way he might excuse away her poor manners as anything but having seen him and chosen to turn her back and cut him quite deliberately, and slips away into the hedges of the garden with only the softest, questioning, "Miss Myale?" drifting after her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> *</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia is angry with her for a week, for reasons Quil only half understands. She wonders if Cordelia's having a hard time of it again, if it's making her temper short, but doesn't dare ask. It will only make it all the shorter. So she keeps to her library, where Cordelia's less likely to heave a sigh and turn back the way she came if she encounters her, and she bends her head over her books and tries to read faster, and more, and faster still. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A knock at the door makes her lift her head with a start, and then grimace at the unexpected protest of the muscles in her neck and back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The door swings open, all the way, and Cordelia stands on the other side, already giving Quil a flat, unimpressed look. "Someone's here for you," she says, and then flounces off without taking the time to tell Quil who, or to give her the opportunity to send them away. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The only thing that stops Quil calling out after her, or calling out that she's indisposed to the person Cordelia brought up to her, is the half-glimpse she gets of them through the door, the practical leathers and the contrast of rich brown hair on verdant skin, and she's on her feet and moving toward the door before she realizes she meant to stand. "Phi?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "My lady," Phi says, but doesn't bow because, Quil realizes as she nears, her arms are heavy-laden with a pile of thick books stacked so high they nearly obscure her vision entirely. "I can return, at a less inconvenient hour."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The suggestion is so absurd, when it seems a miracle that she and her load made it here in the first place, that Quil nearly laughs. She shakes her head instead, casting off the impulse, and reaches to take three books off the top of Phi's pile, so that she might at least see clearly, and Quil see her. Even those three strain the limits of Quil's strength. "What is this?" Quil asks her, wondering, and carries her three to drop, too heavily, onto her desk.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi follows her in and places the rest down beside Quil's. Phi's pile stands twice as tall as Quil's or more, but Phi hardly seems winded.She looks at the uneven stacks of books with satisfaction, and then turns to Quil and says, "With any luck, they'll be some help to you." She flips the cover of the book on top of the nearest pile open, flips through the first few pages, then gives a little grimace and a shake of her head before closing it again, and meeting Quil's astonished gaze. "I had a look through the library, to see if it held anything that might be pertinent to your research. Some of these are very old," she says, with a shrug that looks almost like an apology, "and I've never seen other editions of them outside of Fairpoint's walls. I don't know the specifics of what you're looking for, or struggling with, but I thought—I <em>hoped</em>—perhaps you'd find something in them that's useful, that you haven't found elsewhere."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil approaches Phi, and the books, gingerly. She reaches to open the book that Phi had opened and then closed, sees the title printed on the first page, sees the list of them embossed onto the stones of the books before her, and she could laugh, or she could cry. They're books on magic, on every school of it that there is, and Phi's right, in all of Quil's searching, through every bookshop and market she could find, she's never seen any of these titles before. Some of them seem rather generic for her purposes, but some of them— oh, some of them—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil swallows back the tears that threaten to choke her and looks up at Phi. "These are wonderful," she breathes unsteadily. "I can't ever thank you enough."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Some of the worry clears off of Phi's face, and leaves her looking quietly, fiercely pleased instead. "It's a little enough thing. They weren't any use to anybody in Fairpoint's library. I hope they'll be of use here."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I think they will be," Quil says, still soft. She's feels as though, if she voices her hopes too boldly, too clearly, they'll be snatched away from her like a dandelion puff in a breeze. She curls her hands closed at her sides and nearly trembles with the urge to read them all, read all of them, right now, to bury herself in them and not emerge until she's found what she's needed in them. What <em>Cordelia</em> needs. After a moment, it's too much to resist. She bites at her lip and frowns up at Phi and says, "Will you think it the height of rudeness if I abandon you for them straightaway?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi just smiles, easy and warm. The corners of her eyes crinkle up as she shakes her head. "I brought them to be read," she says, like it's an answer in itself. "I wouldn't keep you from it."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil all but falls on the books, pulling the first from its pile and spreading it open on the desk, her fingers tracing the lines of text before her. She perches on the edge of the chair, one leg folded up beneath her, and loses herself in it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "May I ask you something?" Phi says quietly, sometime later, and Quil jumps, and then swivels about to stare at her. She might have been reading for five minutes, or three hours. The ache of her back suggests that it's closer to the latter than the former. And Phi is still <em>there</em>, is sitting in one of the library's plush chairs and— oh gods, she has a tray with a pot of tea and jars of sugar and cream on it, has a cup of the tea held between her hands and she's swirling it idly about and watching her, not the cup. Quil could perish of the mortification of not having realized that Phi stayed, of not having offered her the tea once she realized that she had. Had she had to ring for it herself?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I don't want to disturb you," Phi says, and Quil jolts back to herself enough to remember that she'd asked a question. "You can say no."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil draws a deep, stuttering breath and turns deliberately away from the book. It's the least she can do, when Phi's been here all this while, and Quil's been ignoring her dreadfully. "Of course. What do you wish to ask?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's gaze slips sideways from her, to the book spread open on the desk, to the stacks of them around her. She brings it back to meet Quil's before she asks, very softly, "What does your sister think of all this?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil flinches, and sinks back in her chair. She gnaws at the corner of her lip and pulls at a fraying bit of ribbon on the hem of her sleeve. "It depends on the day," she answers, nearly a whisper. "Of late, she is none too pleased. She would rather I take her to balls, and—" Her voice slips, turns bitter, "and entertain calls from suitors—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's gaze on her is quiet and contemplative. "And you don't wish to do these things?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil hisses air out between her teeth. "I <em>can't</em>. How can I when— when she—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Something shifts in Phi's expression, though it's still mild, still doesn't make Quil feel crushed by judgment or expectations. She rises and leaves her teacup behind, comes over to Quil's chair and pulls another about the desk to sit beside her. It's only when she reaches to slip a ribbon into Quil's book and close it, and must shift it aside in order to reach, that Quil realizes that there's a matching teacup at the corner of her desk, sitting just at her elbow, gone cold and half-empty. She stares at it, and can't even remember being given it, much less drinking it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi hesitates once the book is shut, with her fingers still pressed to the leather of the cover. She stares at it as though she's staring far into the distance, and her voice is soft and nearly dreamlike when she says, "Military service isn't gentle on those it takes. It isn't kind. I saw what it did to many of my brothers, to too many of them. I saw what it left behind." She takes a slow, ragged breath and her fingers press into the book's cover until her knuckles go pale. "I was very angry. I wanted back <em>my</em> brothers, the ones that had been stolen from me, with their quick smiles and their ready laughter."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil can scarcely breathe at all. Every fiber in her cries out, <em>Yes, yes, exactly that, yes</em>. It's just as well she can't breathe, because she thinks if she had even a scrap of air in her lungs, she would scream, or sob.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi glances sidelong at her and her gaze is so sad, and so kind. "It took me too long to realize that my brothers, some of them, felt that I was staring so hard into the past, wishing for who they had been, that I did not see them as they were, standing right there before me. And they needed their sister."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The barb of it is honed so sharp and aimed so true that it pierces straight to the quick of her, and Quil doesn't even flinch. She just takes a breath, and another, and feels the pain blossom in her breast. "Of course she needs me. I am <em>trying</em>, I am—" <em>I'm trying so hard</em>, she thinks, and could weep once more. "I am doing everything I can think of and more. I just want her to be happy."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi reaches to her, very slowly. Her fingertips brush Quil's cheek, and come away shining with tears. "Don't you think she wants the same for you? Happy, and dancing at balls, and blushing over suitors?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil shakes her head hard. "How can I be? How can I, when she isn't?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi is quiet for a moment. "We spoke a little, as she led me up here. She seems a lovely girl. She told me a little about the ball you took her to. She told me what a grand time she had had."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil squeezes her eyes shut and presses the heels of her hands against her brow. "It was one night. She has good days, sometimes. But it's not the same." Her voice twists, goes fractured and heartbroken when she says, "I wish you could have known her. She was as bright as a star."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I know her now," Phi says, and Quil thinks there's gentle chastisement in her tone. "I like her quite a bit." She moves off of her chair, takes a knee beside Quil's and reaches for her hands, then just holds them. She gazes up at Quil and says, very softly, "How can she be happy, when her sister isn't?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil presses her mouth flat and pushes back, sliding the chair back and pulling her hands from Phi's. "Why— Why would you bring me these books, and then tell me that I shouldn't be doing what I am?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I'm not," Phi says, insistent all at once, and it cuts through the rising tide of Quil's grief and stills her, just for a moment. "I wouldn't. I know precious little of what your sister has been through, or what you are hoping to do for her." She reaches for Quil's hands again, reaches across the distance Quil put between them and takes them in hers, squeezes them. "I'm not saying you shouldn't try to help your sister. But I think— I think you both lost something, between when she left and when she returned to you." Her voice goes softer still, though Quil would have thought it couldn't possibly. "I think she misses you a great deal."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil's breath hiccups through her. She shuts her eyes. Tears fall down her cheeks, and she doesn't try to stop them.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's hand brushes her cheek again. "You might find things a little easier for you both, if you gave her a bit of your time. Not instead of the books, but alongside them."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil can't speak for the tears and the grief choking her. She wants to say that she can't, and she wants to say that she'll try, and she can't say anything at all. She presses a hand to her mouth to hold back the sobs, but her shoulders still shake with it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's quiet a long, long moment, but she doesn't move there from where she's kneeling, holding Quil's hand with one of her own, drying her cheek with the other. At length, she does move back, and her hands fall away, and Quil listens to her quiet steps as they cross the rug. Almost at once, they return, and Phi takes the chair beside hers once more, and then a hand brushes the back of Quil's, and when she turns it over, a teacup presses into it, warm and heavy enough that it must be full. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil opens her eyes and looks down at it, and then up at Phi. "I'm sorry," she says unsteadily. "I'm a terrible host."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi smiles, crooked and a little sad. "I'm a terrible guest," she says. She hesitates, and then stands up, and then stands there. "I really didn't mean to disturb you. I should go, and leave you to it."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil just nods acceptance, too weary to figure out how to make the protests that politeness would demand of her, too overcome by Phi's kindness and generosity to agree outright. She should get back to the books, she thinks as Phi makes her farewells, but all once she can't stomach the thought.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She sits there for an hour, perhaps, numb and exhausted and weary down to the marrow of her bones, before she manages to pull herself to her feet. She walks like an automaton, out of the library and through the house, until the sound of music catches her and she follows it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She finds Cordelia sitting before the pianoforte, her chin in one hand as she idly plays a bit of tune with the other, over and over with minor variations between one and the next. She frowns as though she's dissatisfied with it, and is so preoccupied by it that Quil is nearly to her before Cordelia notices her, and startles. She starts to scowl at once, then freezes for a moment, and then frowns in an entirely different manor. "Quil? What's wrong?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil just shakes her head and sits on the bench beside her, leans in and bands her arms about Cordelia's waist and presses her face to her shoulder and breathes there, raggedly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Quil?" Cordelia says again, and she sounds afraid, she sounds like she's a child again, small and turning to her older sister for reassurance. Quil can't speak through everything choking her, but she can't let that plaintive query go unanswered, either. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She draws a deep breath, lets it shudder through her, in and out, and then says against her shoulder, "I love you very much."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Oh," Cordelia breathes, soft and still sounding small and a little lost. She leaves off her playing and wraps Quil in her arms, holds Quil as close as Quil holds her. "I know. Of course I know."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil nods there, half against her skin and half against her dress, and just holds her, and is held, and hopes that it's enough.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> *</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The piles of books sit on the edge of her desk like a monument, a reminder of Phi and the things she said, impossible to ignore. Quil works through them, slowly — slower than she meant to, slower than she would have if Phi hadn't sowed the seeds of guilt and regret in her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She said nothing about when the Windroses might want or need the books returned to their library, and so Quil vaguely thinks that she will bring them back once she's finished with them, until one day she eyes the smaller pile of books slowly growing on the other side of her desk, where she's put each when she's wrung all the useful information that she can out of them, and she remembers how Phi's arms had strained with the load, and how even the three that Quil had taken from her had been nearly too much for her to manage, and she realizes the foolishness of that plan. She won't make it out of the library with all those books piled in her arms, much less to the Windroses' estate.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She will have to return them as she's finished with them, she decides, and takes up two from the ones she's already made notes from, and quickly fetches a cloak against the chill, and finds Cordelia to tell her that she's leaving for an errand and will be back shortly. And then she leaves, her heart fluttering a little too quickly beneath her breast, before she can talk herself out of the impulse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It's not a terribly long walk to the Windrose estate, for all that they dwell in a much finer area of town that Quil and Cordelia, where the houses are grand and richly-appointed, and make their own feel humble by comparison. Still, her arms feel fit to fall off with the strain of even those two books by the time she reaches it, and makes it up the steps to door. She thinks those precious books might tumble from her arms entirely when she realizes she must shift them to one arm in order to free the other to rap the door knocker, and then she will repay the duke's generosity with broken bindings and crumpled pages. But she keeps them in hand, just barely, and then collapses back against the wall, clutching the books to her chest and wishing, a little, that she'd decided the trip might be worth the trouble of summoning a carriage after all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She's only given a moment to start to catch her breath before the door swings open and one of the staff looks out. They startle, a little, when she straightens from where she'd been leaning, off to the side where they must not have noticed her, when any ordinary caller would have been standing straight in front of the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Hello," she says quickly, and desperately shifts the slipping books a little higher in her arms. "I hope you'll pardon my intrusion. The master of the house lent me some books from his library, and I thought to return these, since I've finished with them."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The man's expression clears, a little, and he reaches to take the books from Quil's arms. She gives them up gratefully, and would turn to start back home, but before she's able, he opens the door a little wider and steps back from it and says, "Thank you. Do come in."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There's no way for her to graciously decline. She doesn't even have the excuse of a carriage waiting upon her. Oh, she should have known better, she should have <em>planned</em> better. But now there's nothing for it but to step across the threshold into the house, and let herself be seen inside. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She's not left in the foyer to await the duke, nor brought to a parlor or sitting room where he might receive her. She's led into the house, up a grand set of staircases and through a dizzying maze of corridors, then through a door, and Quil stumbles to a stop just inside because he's brought her to a library, so much grander and more vast than her own, though she'd have said before this morning that she was proud of the extent of their collection.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She's so busy gawping at what feel like miles upon miles of books that she nearly misses the figure that rises from a chair on the other side of the room. "Miss Myale," he says, and his voice is surprised, but seems warm with it, not displeased.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She dips a nervous curtsy to him, too startled in her own right to be graceful about it. "Your Grace," she says. "I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to disturb you. I only thought to return some of the books you lent me." She fills her lungs, and it fortifies her enough to continue, "It was very gracious of you. I owe you my thanks once again."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His smile doesn't dim as he approaches her, except maybe slides a little toward chagrined at her greeting. "You don't owe me thanks for this anymore than you did for my sympathies," he says, and answers her curtsy with a bow. She gazes at the top of his head and wonders faintly what he's playing at. It's still far, far deeper than someone like her deserves. "They're both freely given."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Even so." Her voice comes out too faint, too thin. "I'm grateful all the same. And I didn't want to presume upon your generosity." She inclines her head toward the books she brought, that the man who'd shown her up had set carefully on the edge of a table before disappearing. "I've made what use I can of those. I'll bring the others by as well, as I finish them."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You don't—" He cuts himself off, frowning a little, then blows out a sharp breath and starts over entirely. "You're welcome here, Miss Myale, any time you'd care to call upon us. Books or no."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can't possibly mean it. It must be politeness that forces him to say so. But before Quil can demur and release him from politeness's constraints, he offers her his arm, as galant as when they'd been at the ball and he'd been leading her off to waltz, and leaves her blinking at him. "Please, do come in. Look at me, leaving you standing about here at loose ends. There's chairs aplenty to choose from, if you'd care to sit. I'll send for some tea."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "That's entirely unnecessary," Quil protests, but she must do so too feebly, and he must take it for a token protest, because he leads her all the same to a plush armchair that looks temptingly comfortable, and then steps outside the library to have a brief exchange with one of the staff who must be waiting out there, to attend his master's wishes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She really shouldn't stay. She told Cordelia she'd be back shortly, and she doesn't want to worry her, not when things between them are still so fragile. But she thinks of what Cordelia would say, if Quil told her she declined a duke's invitation to tea in order to hurry back home, and her mouth twists with a helpless smile. And, too, the walk wasn't long, but it was wearying, with the books weighing her down, and she could use the fortification before facing the return journey.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She sinks down into the chair with a sigh aimed mostly at herself, at her own folly, and the duke returns before she can do more than that. "It will be up shortly," he tells her, and then pulls another chair from its place over to be near hers, with only the small table at her chair's side between them.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil twists her fingers together in her lap and stares down at them, curving her tail about her ankles. "You have gone to a great deal of trouble for me, your Grace," she says very quietly down at her hands.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There's a beat of silence before he answers. When he does, he sounds surprised, maybe a little taken aback. "It's been precious little trouble, Miss Myale." He makes a gesture, but it's little more than a flash of movement in the edges of her vision. "Sympathies, a few books, a pot of tea— It's little enough. I wish there were more we could do."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> That startles her enough to make her glance up at him. <em>"Why?</em>"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His brows fly up, and he looks at a loss for a moment. He's slow to respond to her, and when he does, he sounds thoughtful. "You seemed in great need of a bit of kindness."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I see." Coldness settles in Quil's stomach. She wishes she hadn't let him send for tea. It would be unpardonably rude for her to leave before it's even arrived. "It was pity, then." She supposes it's no less than her family deserves. Pity, she tells herself, is better than the unwelcome gladness she's been forced to endure from everyone else.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>"Pity—"</em> He breaks off, and bites off an oath so fierce it makes her stare at him in shock. "Miss Myale, no, never think it. It's not <em>pity</em>, it is— It is sorrow. It is a wish to help, in whatever manner we might. It is..." He leans forward a little, his elbows on his knees. His gaze searches hers, but she can't fathom what he's looking for. "Care," he finishes at last. He lifts one hand and reaches a little toward her, the smallest movement, before he must think better of it, and puts his hand back where his elbow had been. "It's concern."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She remembers what Phi said, that the duke had served in the military as well. That military service wasn't kind to anyone. Not even a duke, she thinks, looking at the earnestness of his expression as he gazes at her like he's willing her to understand, and she eases a little.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The tea arrives then, and spares her from having to respond, and for a few moments they're able to fall back on the ritual of it, of being offered tea and sugar, of accepting, of swirling the spoon about the cup until both have been thoroughly mixed in, and sipping it, and having something at last to do with her hands.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She's glad to be able to compliment him on the tea, to have that to fall back on to break the silence that's fallen between them that risks turning awkward and uncomfortable. And he smiles at her like he's truly pleased, and tells her a little about the variety he prefers. She watches him sidelong, watches his face grow animated as he talks about estates and fermentation and how the same leaf grown on different mountains can lend a different flavor to the cup.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He breaks off eventually, and looks at her, chagrined again. "I must be boring you dreadfully."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You are not," she says, and means it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks unsure as to whether he ought to believe her. And her cup is nearly empty, so she finishes the last of it and sets it on the tray, and shakes her head when he starts to offer her more.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You've been very kind," she says, "but I shouldn't intrude upon you any longer. And," she adds, before he can do more than draw a breath to protest, "I did tell my sister I would be back straightaway. I wouldn't want her to fret."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Of course," he says at once, and rises. "Did you direct your carriage to wait for you, then?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Oh, no." Quil stands as well, and brushes out her skirts, though they don't much need it. "I walked. It was close enough, and it was good to get out in the open air."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke looks at the books on the table's edge, startled, as though he's just noticed them, or just remembered they're there. When he looks at Quil again, he seems even more startled still. "You <em>carried</em> those all this way?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil's cheeks flame, a little. "It's a fraction of what was carried to me."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> That, inexplicably, makes the corner of his mouth turn up, makes a hint of humor glimmer in his eyes. "My wife is very strong, Miss Myale," he says, and there's laughter in her voice. "You mustn't let her set a standard you hold yourself to. We all pale in comparison."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil opens her mouth, and shuts it, and then stares at him in dismay. She doesn't know how this misunderstanding could have persisted even after the ball, how he could still be under the impression that she and the duchess know one another at all. But, she thinks, if she doesn't correct it now, then she <em>will</em> be culpable in allowing it to persist, and the Windroses will have every reason to be angry with her for the presumption, once they realize the truth. So she shakes out her skirts once more, and smiles at the duke, and says as lightly as she can manage, "It's clear you love her a great deal. Perhaps someday I'll have the honor of making her acquaintance."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke, all at once, goes perfectly still. She flinches a little, and wishes she'd had the time to think of a better way to make the truth clear, one that didn't force the awkwardness of the mistake onto him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Of course," he says stiffly, and draws himself up straight, his shoulders square, the very picture of formality. "I understand. Miss Myale, please accept my most earnest apologies."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shakes her head, bemused, and tries to do what she can to free him of the blame. "For what? You've been the very picture of hospitality."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He bows his head like that, somehow, is a blow. "Please know, my wife would make her own if she could. But, no, you needn't say anything. I won't trouble you a moment longer." He moves to the library door and opens it for her. "Please do allow me to summon our own carriage for you, though, to take you home."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It will take time to ready a carriage, and he's clearly so uncomfortable with her, now the truth of the mistake has been revealed. She shakes her head, says kindly, "I thank you, but no. The walk will do me good, I think. And it's not so far."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He bends his head, says only a strangled, "Of course. Good day, Miss Myale."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Good day, your Grace," she says, and does the only thing she can for the situation: she leaves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> *</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Voices in the corridor lift Quil's head from her books. She recognizes the cadence of Cordelia's voice, but the other she can't quite place. She frowns a little, and frowns deeper as they near, and grow clearer, and it's clear that they're raised, not quite arguing but sounding unhappy either way.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> They're nearly upon her by the time she recognizes the other voice as Phi's, muffled as it is by wall and door, and she's on her feet at once. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "—please, I only wanted to leave them, this isn't necessary, she isn't going to want to—" The rising crescendo of Phi's voice breaks off all at once as the door swings open. Beyond it, Phi's expression is twisted with distress, and Cordelia seems baffled but amused.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You've a caller," she says unnecessarily, past Phi. "I figured I'd see her up."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Thank you," Quil says to her, at the same time that Phi whips around towards Cordelia and says, "I'm <em>not</em>, I—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia's gone already, slipped off down the hallway, and Phi stands there a moment with her back half-turned and her shoulders tight. She looks over her shoulder towards Quil, then turns slowly to face her fully. The distress on her face is vanished now, washed away beneath an expression that's smooth and unreadable. "I'm not," she says again, but this time, her voice is measured. "I'm sorry. I did tell her I wasn't here to call upon you. It wasn't my wish to disturb you."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Oh." Quil wonders, a little, at the pang in her chest that Phi's words elicit, the insistence that she didn't wish to see Quil. "I see." She backs towards her chair, and sits down into it blindly when she feels the edge bump against her calves. "Why did you come, then?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi drops her head forward and says nothing at all for a moment, then reaches to her side, fishes out a small, slim volume from a pocket. Her thumb rubs across the leather of the cover before she straightens and takes three long strides to Quil, and holds it out to her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil glances at it, even though there's something about Phi's strange, frozen expression that's far more compelling. And then her gaze catches on the title inscribed upon it, and she gasps quietly, and reaches for it. Quil's fingers brush Phi's as she takes the book from her, and Phi jerks back, and tucks her hands behind the small of her back, standing like a soldier at attention. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "This is written in Abyssal," Quil breathes in wonder, her fingers running over the sharp, pointed lettering. "Where did you <em>find</em> this?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Misshelved in the library," Phi says. She doesn't bend, or ease. "It's a journal from an adventurer who lived many centuries past. I'm given to understand they traveled rather extensively in Baator. It's written in their own hand," she says, though Quil has already flipped the cover open and seen that for herself. "There isn't another like it in the world. I didn't dare entrust it with a courier, or I'd not have bothered you. I only meant to leave it with a footman, but your sister saw me..."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "<em>Bother</em> me?" Quil breathes, still staring at the little book in wonder. The lines of script written across the pages are messy and rushed, they're going to take an age to even begin to decipher, but Quil's heart pounds in her chest with bright, ebullient hope. "Why would you bother me?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She glances up in time to catch the end of Phi's flinch. As soon as she sees Quil watching, though, she schools her features smooth once more. "I did very much hope not to."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The wonder of the book will have to wait. Quil shuts it and sets it aside on the desk, and doesn't look away from Phi, who looks like a mannequin of herself, too stiff and too still. "Whatever is the matter?" Quil entreats her softly. "Won't you tell me?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi takes a swift breath, and opens her mouth as though to speak, and her an instant her expression twists and goes anguished. And then it's gone again, smoothed over like glass once more, and her voice is entirely all wrong when she says, "There's nothing at all the matter, of course." She inclines her head toward the book. "I hope that'll be of some use to you. I hope it will... help," she finishes, on a breath. All at once every bit of her seems poised in a precarious balance, as though if Quil breathes too hard or speaks too loud, Phi will shatter, or crumble.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil folds her arms across her middle and closes her hands tight on her elbows, and watches Phi across the distance she's left between them, and a hundred questions tangle in her throat so that she can't voice even one of them. She wants to ask why she's acting like this, but how can she do so when Phi refuses to acknowledge that anything's wrong, even when it's obvious it is?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A niggling thought threads through her mind, whispers that perhaps Phi misunderstood Quil's distress the last time they spoke. If she thought Quil was upset with her, or offended by the conversation...</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil casts about, trying to think how to possibly tell Phi she isn't, when Phi seems so determined not to let either of them acknowledge that anything's amiss at all. She stares at the book, the slim new one and the ever-changing landscape of the ones Phi already brought behind them, shifting like wind-blown dunes across the desk as she finishes each in turn.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I let Cordelia coax me out riding, the other day," she says, offered very softly, and without lifting her gaze from the books. "With no particular destination in mind, just for the pleasure of it. I think she had fun." She dares a sidelong glance toward Phi, who is so still Quil couldn't even say for sure that she's still breathing. "I think we both did."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The change in Phi's expression is like the first moments of an avalanche, a slow cascade that starts with a twitch of her brows, the dark shine of something unnamed in her eyes. Her mouth trembles, her lips part, and for an instant she looks as though Quil has told her some sort of dreadful news.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She spins away before Quil can see anything else, spins and lifts one hand to her face, as though to hide it even now, with her back turned. And she stands like that with her shoulders shuddering for a moment and her head bent forward before she manages a half-choked, aching, "I am very glad to hear that, Miss Myale. I truly am."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil recoils so hard it nearly rocks her chair back. "What—" She stares at Phi's back, the terrible curve of it that makes no sense at all, unless— "Did the duke say something to you?" she demands all at once, fiercely furious. It's the only explanation that makes any sense at all, that explains why Phi would react with pain to what Quil meant to be glad news, why she's holding herself so stiffly back. Why she'd fall back on titles now, when she was the first to dispense with them. If Quil had given that away to him somehow, and he'd rebuked her—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "No," Phi says, and lifts her head, and squares her shoulders, and everything about her is cool and withdrawn once more. "Nothing he oughtn't have." She turns, then, on her heel, only long enough to give Quil a sharp bow. "And I've tarried too long already. Please excuse me." She turns toward the door, hesitates, glances back over her shoulder. "I do hope that helps you find what you're looking for," she says, and her voice wavers with sincerity for just an instant, before she straightens and strides out, too swift for Quil to call after or try to stop her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> *</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil makes it through three days of simmering anger, hanging onto her temper by the thinnest of threads, before she can't bear it any longer. She changes into a walking dress and puts a cloak about her shoulders and finds Cordelia to tell her that she's leaving for a bit, and, with the barest of hesitations, that she isn't sure precisely how soon she'll be back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Cordelia takes one look at her, head to toe and back again, and covers her mouth with a hand, but not quick enough to hide the grin that blooms there. "Give him hell," she says, and a few weeks earlier, Quil would have flinched at that, wouldn't have found it funny in the slightest, would probably have gone fleeing back to the library to pore over her books with renewed determination. But now, it makes the corner of her mouth twitch with the barest hint of a smile, even through her anger. "If anyone can, it's me," she says, and Cordelia's eyes fly wide in an instant before she peels with startled, delighted laughter. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil kisses her brow, and then she leaves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Without any books to weigh her down, and with the strength of her anger fueling her, it seems she reaches the Windrose estate in bare moments. She stands there on the street, looking up the steps that lead to their door, and she doesn't even need to take a moment to gather her courage. She's ready. It's an effort, today, to hold herself back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She climbs to the front stoop with measured steps, and gives three clear, sharp knocks with the rapper that hangs from the door. She only waits a moment before it opens, and the same man who greeted her last time does so again. "Miss Myale," he says, as even as any good servant on a duke's staff must be. "We were not expecting you."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "No, I imagine not. I would speak with the duke, if you please."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The man inclines his head. "I will let him know," he says, and this time he doesn't lead Quil through the house to the library, doesn't lead her to a parlor or sitting room. He leaves her standing in the foyer, and she eyes one of the chairs there, that must have been placed there for just such a purpose, for callers to sit and wait, and she tightens her jaw and remains standing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Footsteps announce his return, and she turns to face them. She realizes almost at once, though, that they're too quick to be the doorman, not measured or staid enough. And so she's braced and ready when the duke appears at the top of the stairs, though it's a surprise when he nearly rocks back on his heels at the sight of her, before he recovers himself and starts down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her anger, of course, would be obvious. Well, let him be taken aback by it, she thinks, and doesn't move so much as a step towards him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Miss Myale," he says when he's reached the foyer, and bows to her. "I didn't expect..."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I know. Your doorman said as much. You'll forgive the impertinence, of course." Every word she speaks snaps with her anger, and the duke blinks and flinches, and his brows crease.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "What can I do for you?" he asks, only half a beat of silence to give lie to his composure.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "What can you <em>do—" </em>Her breath hisses out of her. "You can start with an explanation. Thrice now a member of your staff has called upon me, and we have had a lovely visit each time, except this last, when the manner of our conversation was so much altered that I cannot begin to fathom the reason, except that you must have taken umbrage. If I gave any indication of—" She breaks off, pulls her shoulders even more precisely square, lifts her chin a notch higher, and stares him down. "If it's the intimacy you disapprove of, the error is entirely mine. I <em>will not</em> have you making reprimands on my behalf, I <em>cannot</em>—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Miss Myale," he says, cutting her off, and she snaps her mouth shut and <em>boils</em> with anger. She would snap right back at him for interrupting her, for not letting her speak her piece, but for the way he lifts her hands up between them like a man giving surrender on a field of battle, but for his wide eyes and the wildness of his voice. "Miss Myale, <em>please</em>. I have no idea what you possibly mean."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil's anger goes cold and heavy, and she holds it within her like lead shot, anchoring her, grounding her. "You deny it," she says, flat, nearly disbelieving. Only nearly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He makes a sharp gesture with his upraised hands, then presses them to his face, then slides them up and pulls his fingers through his hair. He stares at Quil as though she'd spoken every word to him in Abyssal. "I cannot deny what I do not comprehend. I don't even know of who you <em>speak—</em>"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Oh, she has no patience for his games. She curls her hands at her sides, lets her tail lash behind her, bites off every word as she says, "Go and summon forth your comrade at arms, then, and I'll have an explanation directly."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke's brow creases even further, his eyes narrowed and his mouth shaping silent words. He doesn't voice them, though, only says after a moment, with a heavy sigh, "Yes. Perhaps that is best. I beg your indulgence for just one moment, Miss Myale."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn't move as he turns away and speaks with the doorman, too low-voiced for Quil to make out. And then the duke himself leaves, slips away and hurries quickly down the corridor, instead of sending the man to bring Phi for him, and Quil wishes she'd been quicker to stop him. If means to chastise Phi in private, before they're both standing before Quil and he has to account for his actions—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It's too late now, and she won't chase him down. She waits, jaw tight, the tip of her tail flicking sharply against the tiles beneath her hooves, until the sound of voices draw near.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "—all the gods, Terry, I haven't the <em>faintest—</em>"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A door opens, and a man steps out into the foyer with Quil. He's dark-haired and broad-shouldered and he's half-elven, but even so he has presence enough that he seems to tower twice her height over her. Quil blinks at him, taken aback, at the same time that he blinks at her, and looks her over, and then arcs one thick brow up and says, in a deep, rich voice, "Well? What is it you think <em>I</em> can do for this mess?"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Despite her anger, still bubbling inside her, Quil gapes at him like a fish. "Who— Who are <em>you?</em>"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Both brows lift, then. His mouth twists with a sardonic smile, but something in his stance eases. He crosses both arms over his chest, says, wry, "The man who fought at Terry's side, through every battle he ever saw. The name's Lanra, pleased to meet you. <em>You</em> asked for me."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil snaps her mouth shut. Her brow furrows and she's so angry, and so frustrated. "Not <em>you</em>," she says, abandoning all propriety, though whoever this man is, <em>he's</em> done nothing to earn her wrath. "I meant—" Oh, to the hells with it. It's not as though the duke can get any <em>more</em> upset with Phi for dispensing with formality between them. "Where's <em>Phi?</em>"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Lanra's brows fly up, then, and his jaw drops, and Quil has a bewildered, disbelieving instant to wonder if Phi could have possibly lied about having that connection with the duke before Lanra starts laughing, softly and then louder, and then near doubled over with it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil frowns at him, affronted. "I beg your pardon," she says stiffly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He laughs all the harder, then straightens most of the way and wipes at his eyes with the back of a hand. "Oh, of all the gods-blessed idiots in all the planes—" She'd take affront at that, too, except that he's already turning away from her, and doesn't even seem to be talking to her. Seems to have forgotten she's there entirely, despite the fact that he apparently finds her hilarious, until he's halfway to the door and calls back over his shoulder, "Keep your patience a little longer, miss. I'm going to have her Grace sent down to you."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The duchess?</em> Quil thinks, and thinks she would quail at that thought, if her anger weren't still so hot within her. But it explains the duke's confusion, perhaps. If it was the duchess who somehow learned about the formalities dispensed between them... or if the duke told her about the misunderstanding that Quil allowed to endure for too long, and directed Phi to demonstrate her lady's displeasure...</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She's working herself up into a righteous fury over that, too, when there's the sound of another door, not too distant, and footsteps on tile, and then the duke comes out of the hall he'd disappeared down earlier, and he's looking at Quil like he's utterly confounded by her. <em>It </em>was<em> the duchess, then,</em> she thinks, and turns to face the corridor, where more footsteps are following the duke's, and they must be the duchess's, and Quil draws breath to speak, just the moment she comes out—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And her voice dries on her tongue, because Phi steps out, and she's looking wary, and she's looking the littlest bit hopeful, and she's wearing a gown made of miles of silk, wearing jewels that glimmer in the lamp light, and she glances briefly at the duke, mouths a short, silent question, and he shakes his head and gives the smallest of shrugs. And this Phi holds herself with a regal bearing that makes Quil wonder, for just a heartbeat, if this could possibly be the same woman she's known. But she says, "Quil," like a greeting, like a question, and it is, it has to be.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "What," Quil says, very softly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi glances at the duke once more, a little longer this time, and says, "You'll have to introduce us, Terry," she says to him, and then her gaze swings back to Quil. "Since we've never met." And there's laughter in her words but there's censure too, and Quil's anger fizzles out into a mess of confusion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke comes to stand at her side. He still looks nearly as lost as Quil feels. "Phi," he says, "may I present to you Miss Tranquility Myale." Phi dips a curtsy to her and Quil nearly laughs at the absurdity of it all. Why are they doing this, why— "Miss Myale," Terry says to her, and then looks at Phi. "My wife, Lady Phillipa Windrose."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>"What,"</em> Quil says, and feels as though the floor has dropped out from beneath her hooves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke catches her by her elbow and guides her over to a chair, helps her sit and then hovers there, looking between the two of them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You—" All at once, there are a hundred things she wants to say, a hundred questions to ask, and they all want to come pouring from her at once. She shakes her head wildly, and what comes out is, "You never dressed like that!"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi bites back a smile, then comes over to them and kneels before Quil's chair. <em>Like before</em>, Quil thinks dizzily, looking down at her. Except it's nothing like it at all. "Gowns are not so practical for walking. Or for carrying books." She reaches as though she means to cover Quil's hand with her own, hesitates with a glance up at her, and then sets it on her knee instead. "I don't care for them especially much, but sometimes they can't be avoided."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "How— You—" Quil thinks, all at once, that she could die of mortification. "How was I to suspect that you were the wife of a <em>duke?</em>"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Ah," the duke says, and when Quil glances at him, he's laughing quietly, brightly. "Now we find the crux of the misunderstanding. She didn't marry a duke, you see." He's grinning, and looking at Phi with so much love and delight that Quil can't help but believe it's true, that they're married. "I married a duchess."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You said you were a <em>soldier</em>," Quil protests, plaintive.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi smiles truly at that, and a little crooked. "I was. I was given the title for my service." She does take Quil's hand, then, and darts a glance at her as though she thinks it's somehow daring. She holds it carefully in hers, says somewhat softer, "I never meant to mislead you. I thought you knew who I was. I thought you must have known."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I called you <em>Phi</em>," Quil says, horrified. Phi's hand is warm on hers, and she doesn't take it back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's smile brightens, spreads. "You can't know what a relief it was."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Why— <em>why— </em>You were so unhappy with me.<em>" </em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> They both make near-identical choked, disbelieving sounds, and Phi shakes her head. "You told Terry you didn't know me. What could I do, when given such a direct cut, but honor it and keep my distance? I didn't know what I'd done to offend you so terribly—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "You didn't!" Quil gasps, horrified anew. "You'd never!"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "—but the kindest thing I could do was to leave you be."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil stares at both of them, back and forth and back again. "I'm such a fool," she breathes at last, and bends forward to cover her face with the hand that's not being held. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "No," Phi says, and the duke says at the same time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn't lift her head, but speaks muffled against her hand. "I liked you so much," she says softly. "And you're married, and it was just a kindness—"</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Phi's fingers tighten on hers, and neither of them say anything. Quil risks a glance up and finds them glancing at one another, looking more somber than they have in long minutes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I think," the duke says, very carefully, and carefully takes Quil's other hand in between both of his, "that you have had quite a shock, and it would be irresponsible of us to send you out to wander your way back home in such a state. I think," he says, before Quil can find breath to protest, "you should come in, if you'd like, and have some tea, if you'd like, and let us court you properly." Phi's fingers tighten ever so slightly around Quil's. "If you'd like."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil lifts her head and stares at him. She's sitting, and the world still feels as though it's spinning around her. "You can't mean it," she says at last.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He lifts a brow, and the corner of his mouth curls, and he says, very deliberately, "I asked you to call me Terry from the start."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Only because you thought I knew your wife."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He laughs at that, bright and happy, and it makes his eyes dance, makes her remember when they'd danced together. When he'd asked her to, sought her out, chose the waltz specifically. "I wasn't wrong," he says around his laughter. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil shuts her eyes, and shakes her head, and clings to both their hands.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Only if you'd like," Phi says, very softly. Quil opens her eyes and looks at her, and she looks so uncertain, Quil can't bear it. "Or we can call a carriage, and send you home, if you'd prefer."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Quil's throat works for a long moment before she can make herself speak, and then, she can only manage a whisper. "I told Cordelia not to expect me straightaway."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The duke's — <em>Terry's, </em>she thinks, she's going to have to learn to call him Terry, if they're sincere about this — face brightens first, but Phi understands only a moment after. They trade a glance with each other that's bright as a sun with gladness and surprise and relief, and it's the relief more than anything that makes Quil finally, impossibly, believe it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Come," Terry says, and stands, and draws her to her feet. Neither of them relinquish her, and so she walks between them, as they lead her into the house. "We'll have tea. I've just got a lovely darjeeling in the other day, and I'm keen to know what you think of it."</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Oh no," Phi says, laughter like music in her voice. "We've got him started now, and now we'll never hear the end of it." She glances sidelong at Terry, smiling so brightly and so full of love and joy, and Terry smiles back at her, and Quil between them is wrapped in the warmth of it, and cannot help but beam at them both.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "I look forward to it," she says, and their smiles, impossibly, shine even brighter. </span>
</p>
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